


The Priest, the Devil and the Elephant

by thenonniethatmadeyoudoit (DemelzaLalondrelle)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: And he watches Sherlock, Foggy Nelson is a Dr Who fan, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemelzaLalondrelle/pseuds/thenonniethatmadeyoudoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Law of Unintended Consequences Wreaks Havoc: set immediately after the end of the TV series</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Priest, the Devil and the Elephant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afterism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/gifts).



Had Foggy not arrived at the office blood singing and brain efflorescing with post-coital bliss, he might have noticed Karen's significant looks, or her sudden squeak of warning, or the shadow of the figure sitting in his office before he nearly tripped over him. As matters stood, Marci had allowed him out of her apartment only after the prompt and efficient execution of a series of clipped commands (involving him in some healthily aerobic activity as soon as he had brushed his teeth) had resulted in her small-pekingese-having-its-balls-slammed-in-a-closing-car-door noise of approval and a reciprocal act of gratification which had actually made his entire brain melt into the chorus of something by Puccini and, he was fairly sure, meant that he was now officially gay. A gay who had his sexy times with a woman, which was the best of all worlds, because Foggy was so not ready to give up breasts.

And then, as if in divine response to this head melting glory, he found Matty's Priest sitting at his desk, waiting for him. Foggy was acquainted with the notion that God knew everything, but he thought about it very little, not thinking either that God was this enthusiastic about communication with His servants, or that Foggy Nelson's sexual activities were high up His priority list. Good Golly, did He not have business with peace processes all over the Persian Gulf? Were His chosen people not in continual need of His intervention in the Holy Land ... Although now he came to think of it, maybe the God who had chosen the Jews wasn't quite the same as the one who had chosen - or somehow got stuck with - the Irish Catholics of Devil's Kitchen - or even the one of the Founding Fathers. Foggy quite understood that it was technically supposed to be the same God - he had been catechised on the connections in his childhood - but maybe they were more like the different Dr Who's; his was maybe more Matt Smith, theirs perhaps Jon Pertwee. Actually maybe it was more like different versions of Sherlock Holmes - 

"Mr Nelson. I'm sorry to intrude on your working hours." Father Lantom left a pause hanging, presumably for Foggy to valet into a conversational closet, and it recalled him to the present.

"No, no, that's fine. Better than fine. It's great. Great! We're not all that busy." There was an understatement. Their law firm so far had managed only two cases, one of whom now was employed by them. The other one had been as guilty as a man who didn't work for either Wall Street or FIFA could be. Matt had confessed later that once they had got this client off the charges he - Matt, in the guise of Daredevil - had accidentally caused him to commit a violent and messy suicide. It was not quite how Foggy had hoped the law practice would work out.

"I wish to talk to you. About Matthew." 

"Oh? I mean yes, cool, do that; let's do, talk about Matty." Praise be, thank You Lord that this your man of God has not come to discuss my sex life. And since anything Matty had told him must be under the seal of the confessional, he couldn't discuss Matt's sex life either. 

"I am aware of what Matthew is." Foggy nodded intently. Father Lathom had caught the significant looking thing from Karen and now he could not doubt exactly what the Priest was insinuating. Except that Matty had told him that nobody actually knew except himself and a woman called Claire who had been involved in some emergency medical care. Shit.  
Could he have confessed to Father Lantom? About the vigilante career that consisted of his parkouring about the rooftops in little more than slightly fancied up pyjamas and having the tar beaten out of him by various lynchpins of the New York crime scene?

"You mean - ?"

"The character of the devil that lives in him. He could be the saviour of Hell's Kitchen, Mr Nelson."

"Seems ironic," offered Foggy with a nervous half laugh.

"Indeed, Mr Nelson. But I believe it is so."

"Um - I don't think I really get this, Father. I know he has some issues, but Matt's a good person. You know, kind to people and he stuck up for me at school, and you know. He's a good man."

"Yes. But he's a good man because he has to prove it every day by what he does. Because on the inside, he fears he is evil. That's his trial, Mr Nelson. That's what I want to ask you to help him against." This priest was misled, Foggy thought, if he imagined anybody influenced Matt's actions. Especially him. He didn't even approve of all this stuff, and the only effect that had was that Matt had always concealed his activities.

"Have you ever tried to help Matty? I do try. I do. But he's a complicated person, and he's pretty secretive. I only just found out all - any of this stuff." The Priest was nodding. 

"Yes. I have tried to help him, Mr Nelson. I understand what you say. But yours is the help that is vital to his fulfilment of his destiny. That's what I believe."

"Mine? He's lied to me this whole time! I think you'd be better talking to Karen."

"No. He feels quite differently about Karen. I can see no lasting importance in their relationship. It is you, Mr Nelson, you will keep him away from the succumbing to his demons. You must ensure he remains focused on his purpose, keep him from the sin inside. I hope I can count on you."

Foggy nodded. "I hope you can too," he offered. "He is my friend, and I want him to - well, to stop putting himself in harm's way, you know? But what do you think I can do?"

"I think you will know, Mr Nelson, when - indeed, if - it ever comes up." Foggy nodded again, silenced by the burden of trust. 

He meant to ask his partner about this conversation - whether it made any sense to him, for example - but Matt was out of the office, so it was safe to assume he was exorcising his sinfulness by either practising or enduring violence among the criminal element of Hell's Kitchen, with the full approval of his spiritual advisor. Foggy felt the Priest would want him to leave Matty to it.

 

He spent the day reading the briefs in the four boxes that Matt's latest case required. He did not entirely resent Matt's ducking out of this; the business of getting them translated into braille or machine read to him was time consuming and more useful as a dodge to get extensions than in itself, and also Foggy had begun to wonder whether Matt knew more about these cases from his alter ego than he always let on; even to the point where he questioned whether Matt's distress at Fisk's escape was actually because he had wanted to represent him in court. This case - as so often - seemed to be one of open and shut homicide, where they would be acting to defend a seedy career criminal from the consequences of his misdeeds. As usual, Foggy did not like it.

 

The day faded from newsprint grey to cityscape murk; Karen brought him a coffee and switched on the lights. "It's getting late. You wanna go eat?"

"Go drink?"

"Even better."

 

This was how Karen's arrest for the murder of James Wesley took place in a dimly crimson bar not far from the office. Foggy stood up to go with her - "Not you, sir."

"I'm her lawyer."

"You can meet her at the precinct."

"Don't say anything at all, Karen. I'll be there the same time you are."

He had previously supposed that nothing Karen could do would stop him liking her in a slightly hopeless puppy way. He never expected to get anywhere with her; she was a ten, and he was a six, at best. Matt attracted her, he did not. And anyway, he seemed to be back with Marci and that had its advantages. But he still liked her a lot. Only when he scored some time alone with her as a client, Karen's eyes were dark with fear - of him - seeming to be far behind her face, which was strained tight, forehead lined, and she started telling him about herself.

 

"Did you actually pull the trigger?" She nodded. 

"I can't remember. Not actually shooting the gun. But I left there after making sure of him, I knew I had stopped him - forever. I felt - sure that he wouldn't come after me. I don't remember pulling the trigger, but I remember I said, I said - " she seemed to be floundering in her memories - " 'Do you think I can't shoot - haven't shot - a gun - before?' and then I did."

"So you can't remember the shooting itself, but before and after are clear?"

She looked up at him, face yellow with fear and putrid fluorescent light.

"I went to see Fisk's mother. That's what got him killed - what nearly got me killed. That Wesley man - the one I shot - he was Fisk's guy. He was going to shoot me, so I shot him."

"That's self defence; so it's really straightforward." Foggy made a note; ballistics - prints - nothing that bad.

"I grabbed his gun. He thought I was - he thought I wouldn't take it, that I wasn't that girl - " she gave a small, low sob - "thought I wouldn't grab it, or I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger, or - or - . But I shot him. With his gun. I did it, Foggy. I killed somebody." Foggy patted her hand, and made another note, and told her that they would prepare a statement, that they would request bail - 

"I should have known!" She was sobbing, her face gauntly, acidulously sick, lined with grief, wet with repentance. "I made Ben go with me! He didn't want to go and I - I told him it was for his wife - and I said - I said - 'what can it hurt?'!"

"What? Go where? What has this got to do with Ben?"

"I made him do it! He didn't even want to go, but I didn't want to go alone - " more sobbing. "I thought - it could lead somewhere - that we could get something on Fisk - but Ben kept saying how he could never afford the facility for her - oh Foggy!"

Gradually, as he pieced together what she was telling him, enlightenment dawned on Foggy Nelson. Karen killed people. Not evil criminals, in self-defence, when it was justified. He could totally deal with her emptying a full clip into Fisk's guy, whatever he was called. But she killed people because she was careless, and didn't think before she acted, and didn't consult anybody before she acted, and didn't learn from past experience. It was one thing to be involved in the death of her first colleague - she could hardly have known - but to proceed on this frolic of her own, not confiding in himself, or Matt, or even Ben, whom she had dragged off without his knowledge or consent into a life-threatening foray for information - Karen killed people she liked, through sheer stupid carelessness, and he couldn't think of anything more dangerous. He felt kind of two-faced patting her hand and telling her he'd get some coffee. He needed a break.

He stood outside the precinct, trying to get himself together, leaning on the wall, frowning intently and making no progress. She and Matt maybe deserved each other. He was just - what the hell was going on? What had he signed up for? He should get the hell out of Dodge - back to Landman and Zack. Marci might put in a good word; he could do all the Corporate Law he wanted and if he represented Corporate Evil, so what? Why was that so much worse than Matt and his desperation to get killed by criminals, and causing them death right left and centre in pre-emptive retaliation? At least he wouldn't care what became of the fellow lawyers at Landman and Zack. 

Abruptly he remembered the Priest. Maybe this was it. This was his Gethsemane. The filthy flea-pit dogshit exterior of the Hell's Kitchen police precinct, was apparently where he was going to decide whether to let himself be sacrificed. Or not - surely the Jesus role here should be Matt's; he was more facing the Judas Iscariot choice of whether to betray Matt by deserting him. He could have turned and started banging his head against the wall. Really? Was this his life now?

He launched himself from the wall, swearing inwardly, and strode off down the street towards somewhere else. He was not planning on getting anywhere, he simply had to move, to pace off this ridiculous situation, to be part of something that was not anything to do with either Matt or Karen or their respective death wishes.

At the corner of west forty fifth, several things happened at once. He heard the sharp crack of gunshot, which meant he had not been hit by it - he assumed - but some kind of missile passed by him at considerable speed; he was hit by a full body tackle than took him down to the ground like a wrecking ball; his hearing was abruptly replaced by a high-pitched whine, and he was definitely told to "Stay down" by a disturbance of extra vibration and a sturdy push by the departing figure. 

His first view was of grimy sidewalk and a Mercedes SL200 wheel hub, his second - as he turned his head to observe his preserver - was his law partner in full Daredevil rig, on his way into the fray. There were a couple more gunshots, before they were replaced by the noise of old fashioned knock-down drag-out hand-to-hand. These noises made him feel a little more sickened. He screwed up his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose - rookie mistake, if he hadn't been horizontal he would have reeled from the concentrated smell of piss - and hauled himself up through sheer fear that Matt was getting pounded on and would soon be beyond helping. 

Instead he beheld a scene of bloody carnage by which he was impressed and appalled. Two people were flat out on the road, knocked cold; another was getting up from the hood of the car that had broken his trajectory - until Daredevil knocked him sprawling back over it. 

"You could have been killed," observed Foggy. "Again." 

"You could have been killed," responded Daredevil. 

"Huh," Foggy grunted. "Your priest's right about you. Kamikaze crazy." 

Police sirens sounded, nearing the scene. "You're dripping -" he rubbed the corner of his mouth to show where Matt should wipe the blood from. "Let's get out of here. We need to talk because you just ruined my best eighty dollar pants." 

They cleared the street without further attack or conversation. Foggy was not bantering for once, though Matt seemed to be somehow pleased. They ended up at Matt's apartment because it was closer. Still without speech Matt went to the fridge and pulled out two beers, opened them, their popping gasps loud in the silence, and handed one over. They drank from the bottles. The silence ticked on. Matt slaughtered it.

"You seriously paid eighty bucks for those pants?"

"Yeah, all right, I did. What?"

"Jesus, I'm visually impaired and I can tell you were ripped off."

"How? How can you tell that?"

"I can hear them, Foggy. Quality pants are silent."

"Just quietly wrapping my head around the fact that I was the target of a street attack which ruined my perfectly good pants because of you."

"I was saving your life."

"Because you put it in danger! And now - you heard about Karen?" 

"She called me."

"So she's a killer with a secret life as well. I may as well hire myself out as a target." 

"You may as well if you're going to wear those pants." 

Matt was rubbing the material of said pants between his thumb and forefinger.  


"Leave my pants alone!"  


"I would if you did," Matt countered. "Perma-press polyester, Foggy? What the fuck?" 

"Your girlfriend - our secretary - kills people! I hate people who kill people!" protested Foggy, trying to get back to what had upset him. Matt was not paying attention to what he was saying. "Wha -what?" he stammered, realising that Matt was working open the fly of his much-discussed pants. "How can we run a law firm when the staff are all criminals, Murdock?" 

"Get those pants off, check the label and tell me I'm wrong about the goddamn perma-press," challenged Matt. 

"Jeez," he reiterated, but he didn't argue any more, instead removing the pants and standing in his boxers before the blind man who never took his semi-sightless gaze off his left shoulder. "80% wool, all right?" The blind hands reached out to the label. 

"That's 20% other fibres." 

"You're 20% other fibres," sulked Foggy. "What the fuck is it about my pants? They're not the problem!" Matt's palm, cool, hardened, dry, passed over from the pants label to Foggy's knuckles, rubbing them comfortingly. "The problem is that our law firm is now composed of not one but two thirds closeted criminals." The hand crab-crawled over his jacket sleeve. "I just wanted to do corporate law," he moaned. Matt's hand arrived at his collar. 

"I am sorry, Foggy. I totally get that this is not your fight." 

"But it is my fight. Mi casa de avocados es tu casa de avocados. They are all our fights now." Matt's knuckles rubbed his collar bone through the cloth of his shirt. 

"We never fight," he pointed out. 

Foggy was alerted by a text buzz revelation of how very physically close he was to Matt. Without pants. It was not unusual for them to be physically close, and Foggy had always felt very comfortable with it. He'd always assumed it was their lack of sexual tension. He currently didn't feel exactly comfortable with their closeness. He felt something else, and it was not exactly comfortable. It was more like slightly buzzed. And nothing short of another firestorm would have got him to move away. 

Another text buzz smote him. "You will know," the Priest had said. This was what he had meant. Matt was doing all this stupid, self-endangering shit because he was angry with what he really was, or wanted to be, and that was what Foggy could fix, because he did not have a problem with what he really wanted to be, or was; and Matt could get over his Daredevil urges to wreak havoc on the streets of New York and go back to saving Hell's Kitchen through due process.

A splendid, sweeping vision of huge increases in safe, dull, corporate law cases and Matt looking less wounded and more normal duck washed over Foggy.

"Hell, Foggy, what's with your heart? You having a seizure?" - said Matt, before Foggy leaned in to push his mouth onto Matt's. He panicked for a moment that this was all a terrible mistake, and that Matt would throw him across the room rather than kiss him back, but his anxiety was unfounded. Matt carried right on with the kissing, and given the state of their clothes at that time, there was very little to get in the way of matters carrying on as quickly as - if not slightly more quickly than - either of them might want. Matt's hands were less dry, his breath less paced, his movements more messy, and Foggy realised he was shaking when he pulled him onto the couch.

He stopped thinking or noticing very much that wasn't about sensation for a while just after that.

 

"So you totally know that this is all down to your Priest. That he came to see me to tell me to sort you out." Matt's face was open and relaxed and expressed unfocused disbelief at this news. He shook his head. 

"He said that?"

"No, he said you needed to stop feeling that what you want is the devil. Or that you have to fight the devil, so you fight people. So I figured - you know."

"Nope," said Matt decisively. "Pretty sure he thinks all sex totally is the devil. Or my trial, or something. He was probably hoping you'd keep me from it at all costs." His hand rested on Foggy's shoulder, giving it a not-actually-so-comforting squeeze. Foggy considered this. The Catholic church - the Priest - could do what it liked. Hope, however, refused to die quietly.

"But now you have kind of - faced those demons down - you'll be able to - you know, focus on using the law? To sort out the criminals?"

"Why would I do that?" 

"Because you were doing it as sublimation and now you can give up the dressing up and be who you are," explained Foggy, patiently.

"I don't think you get it, Foggy. I fight because of how I just like it. It's who I am."

A long, thoughtful pause followed.


End file.
